


The Things We Do

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Bottom Tony Stark, Dom Steve Rogers, Fluff, Insecure Steve Rogers, M/M, Sub Tony Stark, Tony is a Good Boyfriend!!!, Top Drop, Top Steve, Top guilt, kind of character study-esque shit dropped in there, not a sexy fic just a fic involving sex, so if you've ever wanted to genuinely read porn just for the plot i mean, very brief mention of suicide as a general concept
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 06:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14373303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "If I deserve a $50 dinner but I go to McDonald's and buy myself fries and a soda, is that a disservice to me? Is it bad that I'm making my own decision to get whatever the hell I want?" Tony added onto that before Steve could start comparing himself to McDonald's fries. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. They were sinfully delicious, much like Steve, but within the context of the analogy, it wasn't the best thing for Steve to think too hard about.Steve didn't mean to hurt Tony. He really didn't.





	The Things We Do

"God, Tony, you're so good for me. It's okay, mo shíorghrá, just relax." Steve didn't expect a response from Tony, since there was a pretty red ball gag in his mouth. They'd been at this for a while now, though nothing fruitful had come of it quite yet. They were just getting started, actually. They kissed, they stripped. That was about it. Steve had just started pulling out the fun stuff, the gags and cuffs and things of that nature. Steve had gagged Tony, he'd rested Tony on his knees and pressed Tony's chest to the bed, but Steve knew that it wasn't enough, that Tony's thoughts were difficult to be distracted from. Hell, Steve wasn't originally very loud during sex, and he wasn't sure whether or not he would be with any other partner, but with Tony, they made love to quiet the thoughts in their heads. If Steve listing off every filthy thing he wanted to do to Tony would help his husband relax, he'd do it. Just being with Tony was enough for Steve's mind to slow, but for Tony, it was more complicated.

 

  
Some days, Tony was okay, and he could lay his head in Steve's lap while Steve twirled tufts of his hair around a finger and he wouldn't have to worry about a thing. But some days, he was obsessive, and the deadly 1-2-3 of his thoughts waltzing around his head could only be countered with the 1-2-1-2 of pacing around the room.

Tony's heart beat in rhythms and counts, his analytical brain categorizing memories, facts, opinions, all in the same way Maria's slender fingers, shaking with age, would cross piano keys. Tony walked to a metronome, he knew tempo as he spoke.

Tempo, of course, was something easy to understand. Simply put, it was a frequency. The strumming of a guitar or the melodies of a flute were manipulations of waves set to an occasionally inconsistent frequency. B flat wasn't a note, it was the length of an instrument, the thickness of a string. Even a violin, beautiful as it was, was only beautiful for efficiency's sake. At least, in part, it was. Size, structure, material- Everything was taken into account. Tony could understand that. He could appreciate the artistic integrity of efficiency translated into something appealing.

What he had a harder time understanding was why people would stain the wood of a violin when the color of the wood was an incredible indicator of what sound the creator chose to produce. He had an equally hard time understanding paintings on ukuleles and ribbons tied to the necks of guitars.

He was 28 when he first really, honestly understood what the personalization could accomplish. They had a grand piano at Stark Mansion, a gorgeous white thing with ivory keys. Of course, Tony would never buy another made of ivory, but as a child, what did he know? When he was young, all he knew was that it was beautiful. And, on one of its legs, there was an engraving with the divots painted gold. MC. Maria Carbonell.

When Maria died and Tony visited the mansion again, he sat down at the piano and tried to play. He used to practice every day. Growing up in the lap of luxury as he did, he was gifted many things. Lessons and skills and knowledge. All things rich kids with braggy fathers learned. Coincidentally, Tony observed, plenty of the kids he met who surpassed him in things like music and art (which he hated; losing was almost always devastating, aside from the occasional time that Tiberius Stone would be around, solely because he was so happy when he won that Tony couldn't help but be a little bit happy, too) eventually ended up dead or imprisoned. Tony read every obituary. He looked into every case. Drugs. Drinks. Suddenly veering off the side of a road into the ocean. All shit that Tony himself had considered, all shit Ty considered, too, things that nearly every kid he met at the galas Howard dragged him to had considered. Maybe things Howard considered once upon a time, though Tony loathed to say they agreed on anything.

Tony was never the best at the piano. He played the right notes, he could transpose by sight alone, he knew music theory and posture and position, but he could never get the feeling right. He didn't know how to open himself up like that. He couldn't pretend to be feeling anything with a piano, not like he could with a speech. He could control his voice when he spoke, the lilts and the tone and the words. But a piano? He was playing the same thing as everyone else was, but he was so... clinical.

When he sat down at that piano on December 25th, 1991, he couldn't remember the notes. He was curled in on himself in a slouch that would make even a beginner pianist cringe, he was staring at the keys when Maria would always play with her eyes closed. It sounded like shit. It made him feel like a failure. But, god, he'd never played with so much feeling. The song was as broken as his heart, and had anyone been around to listen, maybe they could have cried the tears that he didn't.

It felt wrong to take anything from that mansion once Maria and Howard were gone, so he bought his own piano. It was the same make and model as the one in the Stark Mansion (ivory keys exempt), and though it was purely physical, though it would have no bearing on the sound, Tony carved MC into one of the legs and painted the engraving gold.

Steve felt very different about music, Tony found. They talked about it once after Steve moved into the penthouse and saw the piano Tony kept. He asked about the color and the engraving, and Tony explained that it was the same thing his mother used to play. He felt okay sharing that with Steve. With anyone else, he might have just said it was appealing to his eyes and that was it, but he told Steve without a second thought.

He asked Steve if he had anything like that, anything so personal. Steve smiled and said he didn't, not until he got his dog tags. He was dirt poor, and the fanciest instrument he could afford was a rubber band in between two sticks in the dirt. It didn't play well. Bucky made fun of him once or twice (purely in good fun, since he did the same exact thing).

 

Steve, contrary to popular belief, thought in boxes and categories. Where Tony's mind was fluid and everchanging, Steve's was stiff and controlled. He had a much more difficult time expressing himself than Tony did. It was frustrating for both of them, really. Tony told Steve so much, and Steve really thought that... that maybe he was the first one to ever hear so much of Tony's stories. He hated that he couldn't reciprocate the action. Tony hated that he couldn't, too.

Selfishly, Steve thought he might have wanted leverage. It was what the SHIELD-issued therapist told him when he went in the one time, just to appease fury. She said he was afraid of being hurt, he was afraid of being dominated or controlled, and he just wanted to make sure he was safe. She said it was nothing to be ashamed of, that everyone felt it to a degree. But it was keeping Steve from being honest, it was keeping him from letting Tony know what was going on in his head. Frankly, all he had was guilt. Guilt about lying to Tony, saying he was fine when he wasn't, when Tony could obviously see that he wasn't. Guilt about missing that date with Peggy, guilt about letting Bucky die.

He felt guilt about not finding a fucking cure for tuberculosis when his mother was on her death bed. He laughed a little bit in disbelief when he told the therapist. She didn't laugh. She took everything he said into account, she gave him a brief synopsis on what she'd heard and what she thought, and he decided he hated therapy.

He was just so skeptical of love. Tony was the most amazing man he'd ever met. Steve figured that, if they'd met 70 years ago, Tony wouldn't have spared him a passing glance. He'd have gone on to the next handsome guy on the block and they would have fallen in love. It hurt to think about. Steve knew that Tony didn't think of him as a slab of meat, but Tony probably wouldn't have paid him any mind if he didn't have the body he did. He saw the guys and gals Tony used to bring home. Tony wasn't materialistic, but it was like buying a notebook. You could use any lined notebook for the same purpose, but what caught your eye, what led you to buying it, was on the outside. Steve was plain leather and everyone else was diamond studded, simple as that.

Tony shouldn't have loved him. Steve knew that Tony felt the same way, that he genuinely believed he didn't deserve Steve, but... Tony really, really shouldn't have loved him. It wasn't enough that he was more capable of hurting Tony than anyone else. He also had to go ahead and be the most emotionally constipated individual on the East Coast. He didn't tell Tony how he felt, he didn't tell Tony what he was afraid of or what he had nightmares about (though Tony always knew, and Steve wondered if he was obvious or if Tony was genius-ing up the whole fucking psychological operation). He shared his best with Tony, but he never let Tony see his worst. He was so, so scared of letting Tony see how bad he could be, how bad his thoughts could get.

Emotional leverage. She- the therapist- was right. Steve wanted emotional leverage. If he knew Tony's worst but Tony didn't know his, that meant Tony didn't know just how shitty Steve could be. That meant Tony couldn't use anything against Steve-- he wouldn't, god, he wouldn't, but Steve was coming up with any reason not to tell Tony how much everything hurt.

In Steve's time, no one gave a fuck if you wanted to jump off a cliff. Hell, they encouraged it. The less people there were to feed, the more food there was to go around. Steve's father was shit and his mother was constantly sick, so even when Steve felt terrible, he wouldn't go to them to vent. He wanted them to be happy, for drastically different but significant reasons. And when Bucky came around, tarnishing the good times they had with Steve's bullshit problems felt like a waste.

He'd just never been one to talk about things. He loved Tony so much, he loved spending time with Tony, and... He didn't want to bring Tony down. It was stupid to think about.

Some days, Tony would start venting the second he entered the penthouse. He absolutely wasn't like that at first, not when they were just dating. He was quiet about his problems just like Steve was. When Steve proposed, it was actually kind of a shitshow. Tony said no, he couldn't, Steve didn't know him and how bad he could get and it would be better for Steve if they just stayed casual until he found someone without so much baggage. Ironic, considering that was how Steve felt every time Tony smiled at him, but.

Tony had gotten so much better with communication. He told Steve that he didn't want to fuck it up, that Steve was the best thing he'd ever had and losing him over miscommunications would be devastating. Losing him in general would be devastating. Steve agreed. He didn't change, but he agreed, and that was worse than the act of lying itself.

So Tony could stroll right into the penthouse talking about "that asshole at work with the dumb fucking hair", and once he was done talking, they were okay. Steve's mood wasn't ruined, Tony felt lighter, and everything was better than it was before Tony got home. All of the evidence pointed to the fact that Steve could tell Tony everything and Tony would still love him just the same, but he couldn't. Steve couldn't. Tony would figure that out eventually, and... Steve would either finally summon the courage to stop being a terrible husband, or Tony would leave him.

God, he didn't want Tony to leave him.

What they did helped. The touching and teasing Tony would allow, the act of submission in itself. Tony was so open to being dominated, and Steve didn't know if it was because Tony needed it or if it was because Tony thought Steve needed it. Either way, it was clear they both enjoyed it. A large part of it was purely physical. It was still sex. Tony would feel good, and him feeling good made Steve feel good, and it was... It was just nice. But then there was the emotional part of it, the part where Tony could give up control in a place he felt secure and relax for a little while, the part where Steve could have Tony all to himself without any doubts about Tony's care for him.

Tony cried. He wasn't so much of a crier, really, but in bed, he cried. He told Steve it was because of a lot of different things. Mostly, he was just overwhelmed. Not sad, not ecstatic. Overwhelmed. Steve understood. It was overwhelming, what they did. When Tony would say things like "yes, sir" or when Steve would... punish him. God, the word felt so strange to think about when they were sitting at the breakfast table or watching a movie together, but behind closed doors, it came out naturally.

Steve would outline rules, he'd tell Tony what to call him, he'd tie Tony up, and then Tony would cry and moan and beg. It was cathartic. Euphoric. Tony almost always dropped, though, so Steve made sure to take care of him when they were done. It had taken a lot of research and lot of talking to Tony about what he specifically wanted and needed after sessions like that, but finally, they were settled into a rhythm where Steve knew exactly what to do without Tony ever having to say a word.

Steve never got that aftercare. Tony would tell Steve how good it was, how much he loved it, and it would make Steve feel a little less guilty after the fact. But then Tony would make a sudden movement or he'd go to stretch a certain way and Steve would hear him wince, and... It was easy for him to beat himself up over it. He'd convince himself to take it easier next time, but then they got down to it, and Tony would beg "harder" and "more" and Steve just wanted to make Tony feel good. It felt good when Tony felt good.

He didn't tell Tony about the guilt, or the fact that sometimes, he was ashamed of how quickly he could get a high off of controlling Tony. He never said a word about it. He didn't want Tony to know. He could keep making Tony feel good, they could stay together and Steve could love Tony so goddamn much. Tony didn't ever have to know about the bad shit.

 

  
Tony wasn't quite under yet. He took a while to get into that headspace, the feeling when everything was floaty and good, when pain was nothing but pleasure and the only thing on his mind was _Steve, Steve, Steve_. But in that moment, they weren't a top and a bottom, they weren't fueled by pleasure. It was just a husband tying up the love of his life for some sweet, sweet lovemaking.

It should have been, at least. It should have gone exactly like it did every single time, where Steve would be extra careful, where he'd make absolutely certain that nothing was too tight or uncomfortable. Steve was careless. One time, just one time, he got too excited too quickly, he was already in the 'dom' state of mind, he was rushing things, he was careless, and when he fastened the rope around Tony's wrists behind his back and pulled the knot tight, he heard a scream.

Okay, not a scream, but Steve was immediately panicked and worried and everything seemed a million times worse than it actually was.

"Tony? Oh my god, Tony--" Steve untied him immediately, pulling him into his arms and checking over him, his fingertips tracing around Tony's wrists and up his arms. Tony was taking sharp, pained breaths, and when Steve's fingers pressed against Tony's shoulderblade, Tony let out a strained cry against the... ball gag. Shit, Steve forgot to take out the ball gag. He undid it and tossed it aside, one arm snaking around Tony's waist to steady him while the other gently massaged Tony's jaw. "Fuck, Tony, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Tony said the second he could. "It's okay, not your fault."

"Not my-- Tony, it's not yours, so whose fucking fault could it be?"

"No one's. It doesn't have to be anyone's. Just- Just give me a minute. Can you grab me an ice pack?"

Steve didn't want to leave Tony's side, but he complied, setting Tony back on the mattress and leaving to grab an ice pack. He searched the kitchen, starting with the freezer and, in his panic, ending in places like the cupboards or the oven, where an ice pack would almost certainly not be. Not a frozen one, anyway. There was a bag of peas in the freezer, though, and Steve figured that would have to do.

He brought it back to Tony and sat down on the edge of the bed, letting Tony climb into his lap and lean against him so Steve could hold the makeshift ice pack against his shoulder. There was a tightness in Steve's chest and a sinking feeling in his stomach as he tried to make sure Tony was comfortable.

"It's not that bad," Tony mumbled against Steve's neck. "I promise you, baby, you just stretched a little too far. That's it, okay? Nothing to worry about."

"I hurt you," Steve argued. "I could do it again. It could be worse next time. I don't- Look, I don't want to do this anymore, Tony. I'm done. I don't want to do this."

Tony sighed, lifting his hands to push himself away from Steve enough to look him in the eyes. Steve's eyes widened a little in worry as he watched the movement, but Tony, exhausted as he was, simply assured him, "Just my elbow, Rogers. I'm just moving my elbows. Listen, I don't care if you want to do this or not, okay? I didn't marry you because of how good you are with vibrators and handcuffs. We can drop this, we can throw out all the shit we've used and be done with it, but I'm not letting you hate yourself over this."

"I'm not hating myself over this," Steve snapped, maybe a little too harshly.

Tony didn't speak for a long minute. He watched Steve closely, studied his eyes and the furrow in his brow, but he didn't speak. At least, not until he said with a hint of sad certainty in his tone, "We're going to drop this right now, I'm going to ask you about it tomorrow, and you're going to say it's fine. You'll never pick up a pair of handcuffs again and you're going to treat me like glass, but you're still going to insist it's fine, and then we won't bring this up again until... never, right? We're never going to talk about this."

Somehow, there was more pain in Tony's eyes then than there was when Steve actually physically hurt him. Of course Tony knew. He was a genius, a genius who'd been living with Steve for years. A genius who'd figured him out, essentially. "Tony, please," he pleaded. "I don't have anything to say about this that you're going to like."

"So what? Say it anyway, Steve, I'm not here to like you 100% of the time. I love you, not whatever bullshit facade you're pulling up. I've been lying since the day I was born, Steve, I know when you're not being honest with me. Just tell me what's wrong."

"Tony--"

"No. No, Steve, you don't understand. You don't. I can't keep taking and taking from you, I can't keep talking to you about my shit when you won't talk about yours. I've never felt more loved in my life, Steve, but I've never felt more untrustworthy."

"I trust you, Tony, I-"

"If you trusted me, we wouldn't be having this conversation. If you trusted me, you'd believe me when I say I love you for you, or when it's just a fucking stretch, you'd--"

"If I told you how I feel about this, how I honestly feel about this, it would break your heart, Tony. Please."

Tony was staring at Steve again, his expression a mixture of confusion and hurt. Steve hated it. God, he hated it. "I don't think there's anything you could do that would break my heart more than lying to me, Steve," he said quietly.

There was the evidence Steve didn't need. He knew what he was doing, he knew that he was hurting Tony, but he never acknowledged it. He always justified it by telling himself that the alternative would hurt Tony more. The alternative was worse. The alternative would cut deeper than the "I'm fine" Steve nonchalantly threw out every few days. He didn't have to tell Tony everything. Tony wasn't asking for everything, he was asking for one thing, he was asking about Steve's thoughts on this.

"I should have been more careful," Steve explained. "I love doing this with you, Tony, but every time, I'm so scared to hurt you. And when I do hurt you, even when it's good pain, even when you're begging for it, I- It keeps me up some nights knowing I have the heart to do that to you. I love you, I- I think you're my equal in everything, Tony, but then we do things like this and it- I don't know. I don't know, Tony."

Steve didn't think anyone could look so concerned and relieved as Tony did then. Steve didn't want to hurt Tony. He didn't. He was trying to weigh his options, but Tony would hurt no matter what. Steve thought he might as well just give Tony what he wanted. He could talk. Not about everything, but this, he could talk about. His breathing was only slightly affected, which was good.

"These things happen," Tony assured Steve. "Don't push yourself."

"When I don't push myself, people get hurt. You don't understand, Tony."

"I understand more than you could ever know." Tony's eyes were trained on Steve's. Steve had gone quiet. "It is not your job to get everything right every single time."

That brought the fire back. Steve began to argue again. "But I should. You deserve-"

"If I deserve a $50 dinner but I go to McDonald's and buy myself fries and a soda, is that a disservice to me? Is it bad that I'm making my own decision to get whatever the hell I want?" Tony added onto that before Steve could start comparing himself to McDonald's fries. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. They were sinfully delicious, much like Steve, but within the context of the analogy, it wasn't the best thing for Steve to think too hard about. "You will never know how I feel about you, Steve. You're my sun and my stars, do you understand that? But even if you weren't, even if you were nothing compared to the next guy, I'd still go for you, because that's what we are. We're not comparing and contrasting, it's not finding your perfect equal so no one has to feel shitty about wasting their husband's time. I doubt myself every day looking at you, but-"

"You tell me about it. It's not the same, you tell me when you feel like shit."

"Yes! Yes, exactly, I do, but Steve, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter how much good you've done compared to me, because you asked me out, you proposed to me, you want to go to bed with me every night. Okay? This isn't about deserving each other, it's about loving each other. If I based how I act around you on what I think I deserve, you could break my arm and I'd still be on my knees at your feet begging you not to leave me, but you love me. You love me, and Steve, I love you so, so much. That's what matters."

Steve stared numbly at the bedsheets, but every argument he could make was dead on a dry tongue. He didn't know what to say. Some people really didn't deserve others. Some people were abusive and evil, but... It was about love. Love wasn't always perfect. Tony said it himself, it wasn't about being perfect. Steve just had to accept his mistakes and change. Even the worst lover on the planet could turn into the best if they adopted that mindset (which so many people refused to). Accept mistakes and change.

Tony rested his hands on either side of Steve's face, his thumbs wiping away the tears that had spilled from Steve's eyes. There were only one or two. Steve was even less of a crier than Tony was, but it was a rough night.

"And to be totally frank with you," Tony said softly, kissing Steve's forehead lovingly, "I love what you do to me. Every bit of it. How you feel about it is normal. It's all chemical. Just remember that. When you feel that guilt and that shame, it's not because you did anything wrong, it's because you spent all your happy chemicals on me and you need some time to recover. Okay?"

Steve nodded slowly, and when Tony leaned against him again, he pressed the ice pack against Tony's shoulder once more. "I love you, doll," he said.

"I love you too," Tony replied. "No matter what you think I should feel, that's what I feel. I love you too, and don't you try to take that away, Steve. Not from me and not from you. I love you. Now, whatever you want from me, ask. Anything, Steve."

"... Can we lay down?" he asked. He was tired. He was hurting and tired and he just wanted to go to bed with Tony at his side.

"Yeah, baby. Of course we can. Anything you want."

Steve laid down and, making sure Tony wouldn't be in an uncomfortable position, he pulled Tony on top of him and held him close. It dawned on him just how trusting Tony was with him. He slept right on top of Steve, he let Steve see him at his messiest, he let Steve tie him up, for fuck's sake. Tony loved and trusted Steve so much, with the good and the bad. The least Steve could do was return that favor. It would be hard, but Tony deserved it. Tony did love him, after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> comments fuel me
> 
> i didn't proofread this but there you go lmao


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